


Sorta

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Confusing Hate Sex, M/M, Roleplay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they get intimate, Harper makes even less sense than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorta

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s awkward, like it always is, though this is the first time they’ve gotten this far. Usually Harper ends up on his knees, swallowing Telemachus’ cock, or Telemachus grinds Harper into the wall of the corridor until they both come from that alone, or Telemachus plunders Harper’s tight ass with his tongue, only to have Harper explode before they get to the fun part. 

This time, they bypassed all the excuses. The arguing and teasing wound into rough kissing and pushing one another back against the deck plates, and Harper pulled the screen off a too-small conduit to tug them both inside. It might be better than fucking under Rommie’s ever-watchful eye, but Telemachus wasn’t built for crawlspaces, however at home Harper seems to be. There’s no room to sit up—they have to lie down, Telemachus finally balls-deep in Harper’s hungry ass with his stomach draped over Harper’s. Harper clings to his broad shoulders, half-holding him down, and it helps to stop him from tilting up enough to bang his head on the metal. 

Harper’s _so_ tight. Maybe it’s because he’s a human, and a tiny one at that, and Telemachus’ dick is as thick and long as any Nietzschean’s, pulsing and ripped like the rest of him. He hovers over Harper and rolls his hips to draw it out, push it back in, while Harper’s small thighs squeeze at his waist, oversized boots digging into the curve of his ass. All their clothes are still on, just crumpled aside, and the heat in the little conduit is stifling: Harper’s ass is _burning._ But it’s a delicious heat that Telemachus still happily sinks into, while Harper writhes and whimpers beneath him. 

Telemachus almost hisses at Harper to be quiet; the whole point of slithering in here was to not draw attention. But of course, telling Seamus Harper to shut up is like telling Dylan to not save the day. Instead, Telemachus grabs Harper’s face in his hand, fingers fisting in the short blond hair, and slams forward to stifle Harper’s cry. It’s easy enough to steal Harper’s breath away, and Telemachus does the best he can, plunging his tongue inside and ravaging Harper’s soft walls and blunt teeth and wet tongue. Harper moans into it, somehow still finding a way to be _too loud_ , and those small hands scrabble at Telemachus’ back, threatening to tear the fabric open. In the meantime, Harper’s ass thrusts wildly back into Telemachus’ cock. Telemachus has never had a more enthusiastic lover in his life, but then, he shouldn’t be surprised. Apparently Harper’s sex-crazed prattle isn’t all talk, after all. 

When Telemachus pulls his mouth away long enough to let Harper breathe, Harper gasps, “Fuck,” and rolls his head to the side. It exposes the dataport to Telemachus, who has half a mind to lick it, but knows better. Sweat already beads around it; Harper’s skin is on fire and he’s panting for dear life. He licks his lips before groaning, “’Bout time, you stupid Nietzschean.”

Telemachus ignores the insult. He knows of Harper’s prejudices, and he understands them, and he’s too heady with power and the feeling of Harper’s ass clawing at his cock to care. Instead, he nudges Harper’s face to the other side and descends to lazily nip at the exposed skin. The harder he bites, the louder Harper screams, so he tries to restrain himself as much as possible, even though his body’s longing to _claim_ and _mark_ this scrawny little human as his own. Harper’s hips canter up into him, loving every second. 

Telemachus trails his teeth up Harper’s chin and tries to go in for another kiss, but Harper hisses against him, “That’s right, fuck me harder, you dumb brute.” Disgruntled, Telemachus pulls back enough to look at Harper’s face, scrunched in the effort of taking a cock too big for him. The light’s all slanted and sideways, winding in from either end of the conduit and the little, coloured beeps of panels imbedded in the walls. His hips still, dick fully seated in Harper’s writhing body, while he squints down and wonders how good an idea this was. It takes Harper a second to realize Telemachus has stopped, and then he glares up and practically spits, “What? You forgot how to fuck?” His hips gyrate up, trying to keep pulling Telemachus deeper, but Telemachus easily pins him down. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet—isn’t forcing your cock into kludges second nature to you people?”

Telemachus jerks back as though burned. He hits the back of his head on the ceiling in his haste, swears at the burn but still moves, pulling his hips back and sliding right out of Harper’s hole. He tries to sit up and back, though there isn’t any room and any maneuvering is awkward, especially with Harper trapped beneath him, and Harper grabs at his torso and tries to pull him back down. Suddenly, all the anger is off Harper’s face, and instead he looks confused, maybe a little lost, as he tugs at Telemachus’ shirt and asks, “Hey—what’re you doing?”

Telemachus almost snarls his response, feeling trapped, but he swallows it down—he isn’t really mad, more _hurt_ , that Harper would think of him like that. He licks his lips and mutters, “This wasn’t a good idea.”

“What?” Harper stutters. His thighs clench around Telemachus as Telemachus tries to shuffle back out of the tunnel, to no avail. “Why not? We were having fun! C’mon.” He rocks his hips up into Telemachus’ stomach, his hard cock sliding wetly through the dark curls around Telemachus’ base. Somehow, he wasn’t expecting Harper to stay so stiff, but maybe he should’ve.

He reaches down to push Harper’s legs off him and grunts, “Clearly, you don’t want to have sex with a Nietzschean.”

“Shit.” There’s a clattering sound, and Telemachus looks back up Harper’s body to find his head against the flooring, eyes staring blankly up. “I said something stupid, didn’t I?” Telemachus doesn’t bother to answer. Harper’s always saying something stupid, but this time... “Look, I didn’t mean it, okay? I do want you.” His eyebrows knit together in that adorable puppy-dog look of his, and he pushes up on his elbows to hover his face next to Telemachus’, licking his plush lips, still a little red from where Telemachus bit them too hard earlier. “You’re super gorgeous, and I’m horny, and you’re... you’re good to me, okay? You’re always protecting me and getting me out of scrapes. But I... I grew up on Earth. And I’m gonna hate myself for having sex with a Nietzschean if I don’t put up a fight.”

He says it like it makes all the sense in the world, but Telemachus can’t see any of that as being healthy. He appreciates the compliments, but...

He pushes Harper back down, and Harper goes with a little, “oomf,” and a happy grin like he’s going to get fucked again. He even latches back onto Telemachus’ hips with his open thighs and his hips lifting to rub his gaping hole against the hanging length of Telemachus’ cock. Telemachus can’t help but shiver in want, but it’s not enough. 

He mutters, “I don’t want to hurt you. Or any humans.” He never did. He looks at Harper with all the determination he can muster through the returning cloud of lust, and Harper shrugs apologetically, looking completely desperate. 

He wraps his arms under Telemachus’, hands sliding up Telemachus’ back. He’s so _small_ and cute and easy to hold onto, and he nods and says, “I’m sorry. I won’t use the ‘force’ word again.” But then his face scrunches up and he asks, “But can I at least insult you? Just a little bit.” Before Telemachus can even answer, he lights up and adds, off in a rush, “You can be rough too. Hey, we can roleplay! You be an uber overlord on Earth, and I’ll be your sex slave.”

That’s probably the least sexy thing Telemachus can think of, and he finds himself spluttering, “Why would you even want to do that?”

“C’mon,” Harper whines, “Please? So I’m a kinky guy? What you’d expect?”

“Not for you to bring up your trauma during sex and ask me to make it worse.”

“You won’t make it worse!” Harper’s the one making everything worse. He reaches down between them, having to bury his face in Telemachus’ shoulder and really bend to make it, and his talented fingers latch around Telemachus’ cock. They squeeze around his girth and tug on him like milking a cow, ridiculous but _so good_ , and it gets harder and harder to turn Harper down. Harper guides Telemachus’ dick back into his own dripping hole, and Telemachus lets it happen, because he’s hard as a rock again and Harper’s _so tight_. As soon as Harper’s guided his head past the contracting ring of muscles, he pushes the rest of the way, sinking back inside with a hiss of pleasure. Harper groans like he’s never felt anything better in his life, and he bites at Telemachus’ neck and mumbles breathlessly, “Slam me into the deck, Rhade, _do it._ ”

Telemachus has been a soldier too long. Following orders is second nature, and he listens. He scoops one arm around Harper’s middle, boneblades running flat down Harper’s back, and he slams Harper down into the metal plating, _hard_. Harper gasps, wraps himself tighter around Telemachus’ body, and his cock twitches happily against Telemachus’ stomach. His ass clenches around Telemachus’ cock, and Telemachus can’t help but give into it again, then again, pounding Harper ruthlessly down. It must hurt, will probably bruise, but Harper squirms and whines delightedly and starts kissing Telemachus wildly, all over his neck and jaw and the sides of his face. 

He still doesn’t want to be a cruel overlord. But if he was, he’d probably love a horny little pervert like Harper, so desperate for his cock. The more brutal he is to Harper’s body, the more Harper seems to love it. He grunts at every thrust and moans against Telemachus’ ear, “Yeah, fuck me, asshole, harder— _ahhh!_ —That all you got, uber? I’ve had— _uhhn!_ —better fucks from dogs!”

Harper and his stupid mouth. Telemachus has half a mind to shut it up again, fill it with his tongue, but now that he knows Harper wants this, _needs_ this, he doesn’t have the heart. Instead, he untangles his arms from Harper’s back, giving no protection as he stabs the tiny human down, and instead digs his fingers into Harper’s waist. He bends enough to grab Harper’s shirt in his teeth and nearly rip it off, jerking it fiercely up Harper’s chest to catch beneath his armpits. It stays scrunched just above his rosy nipples, and Telemachus dives in to slam his mouth against one, not so much playing with the little nub in the center as biting and sucking on the whole area. Harper _shrieks_ , hands flying into Telemachus’ hair, and Telemachus grips Harper’s soft hips hard enough to leave angry red marks for days. Good. He wants the whole damn ship to know who Harper belongs to, and obviously, Harper doesn’t mind. 

Harper goes on, spouting nonsense, slipping from one insult to another even as he pulls at Telemachus and begs him to keep going, and it makes it too easy for Telemachus to oblige. He bites one bruise into Harper’s chest after another, then ravages Harper’s neck to leave the biggest hickey Harper’s ever had. Harper’s erection keeps rubbing at his stomach, but he doesn’t once touch it, because Harper doesn’t seem to want him to. 

He’s crossing his arm over Harper’s chest, intent on pushing that infernal shirt up again, when his boneblades brush over Harper’s dick. Telemachus’ arm doesn’t get the rest of the way, because Harper’s hands shoot down to hold it there, and he thrusts himself wildly against the raw spikes, until he screams and his cock bursts a jet of hot, sticky cum right up to splatter against his chin. Telemachus moves away in time to watch Harper paint himself. Harper’s entire body is wracked with shudders, and the second his scream dies off, he lunges up at Telemachus’ mouth, kissing Telemachus harder than he’s ever had, even from other Nietzscheans. All of Harper’s fire comes spiraling out into Telemachus body, and Telemachus comes undone a moment later under the wild spasms of Harper’s ass. He spends himself in Harper’s body, still rocking in and still being kissed like a lion, all teeth and tongue and saliva. His hips rub every last burst of cum into Harper’s channel, instinct telling him to make this small creature reek of him and filled with his seed. If Harper could talk, he’d probably make a joke about not wanting to bear any Rhade children, but their mouths are too glued together for any coherent speech. For those last throes, it’s one wild thrust after another, harsh grinding and sweat slicked skin clutching onto more. 

Harper’s the first to let go. His hips slowly stop moving, and for a moment, he’s held in place by Telemachus’ cock, taken for a few final goes. He slumps back against the deck, arms weakly releasing, and he’s panting so hard that Telemachus is almost worried that he’ll pass out. 

When Telemachus pulls his flagging cock out, Harper clenches and whimpers like he doesn’t want to go. Telemachus kisses his cheek to soothe him, but he still looks wrecked. Most humans do after riding a Nietzschean. 

After everything that’s happened, Telemachus half expects Harper to say _never again_. But instead he looks up with a blissful haze over his dilated eyes and mumbles, “We should... do that again... sometime.” He has to rasp his words through gasps and groans. A protective streak runs through Telemachus’ body, and he’s tempted to drape over Harper, keep him safe until he has the strength to leave on his own. They’re both off duty, but the wiser move would probably be to straighten himself out and get in a clean uniform, just in case Dylan should need him. 

When he tries to move, Harper grabs a chunk of his shirt, tugs at him and pulls him down. Somehow, Telemachus winds up lying in the conduit next to his spent lover, even though he has enough strength to continue on himself like nothing happened. Harper curls into him, and as much as Telemachus wants to tell him to get a grip, all Telemachus winds up doing is patting Harper’s back. Again sometime. Sure.

It’s not like it wasn’t amazing. Just... strange. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected anything else from Harper. After another minute or two, Harper groans, “You’re big.”

It’s so stupid that all Telemachus can do is laugh, kiss Harper’s forehead, and grunt, “You humans are weird.”

But likeable, and he knows he’ll come back again. ...If he ever manages to leave in the first place. Harper snuggles into him, too cute to resist.

He’s out like a light five minutes later, nuzzling happily into Telemachus in his sleep.


End file.
